 So there I was watching Cher's "Farewell Tour" concert extra-ordinair e production and I have to tell you up front that it had to rank as one of the most dazzling productions these veteran show biz eyes have ever seen.
Sitting there among all the pomp and circumstance, trying to take it all in like a Ringling Bros. three-ring circus, (which is sorta what Cher's concerts always remind me of, with a bit of sexy Cher-style Las Vegas spice added for good measure), I was amazed at how wonderfully vibrant this "aging diva" really is.
I mean, she even admitted to "ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and children of all ages" and her cheering audience that, after all, she had been "a friggin' diva" for over 40 years! Imagine that!
 That means she was strutting her stuff in front of the cameras and in dives and dumps from coast to coast, prancin' and dancin' and doing her "gypsies , tramps and thieves" routine on concert stages for all her adoring fans way before the world ever heard of Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera or Jennifer Lopez.
Does that make Cher an old lady of song? Well, according to some folks, who judge people's skills and calculate show biz trends by calendar years, I guess it does. Truth is, Cher is far from being a washed out ol' diva dame, pushed off into some dark corner out of the spotlight by a handful of aspiring, perspiring pimple-faced youngsters who don't have the talent to share the stage with her, much less the gossip pages of your local newspaper.
There was no way I was gonna admit that Cher was "a senior citizen" diva baby, doing all those fancy-ass bumps and grinds and looking like a spring chicken at the ripe old age of 60-something. Nah, no way.
 "Why the hell am I busting my ass up here doing this?" she asked her bedazzled fans during a short break in the festivities. "I mean, come on, now, give me a break. I've been a friggin' diva for over 40 years!" Then she did a little hip action, as if to add an exclamation point to her comment and froze the pose for a minute while the applause drowned her out in adoring appreciation.
Then Cher continued. "I tell you why," she confided. "there's a bunch of hot young things out there who think they invented what I've been doing forever. They tell all the reporters they're gonna teach me a few new tricks. Well, honey, they can't teach me anything I don't already know. I hate to brag, but I think I wrote the book." More applause, forcing Cher to hold up her hand so she could continue.
 "Well, I ju st want to say one thing. I'm doing this show because I want to, not because I have anything to prove. And, as far as those friggin' kids are concerned, who think they're gonna take my place, all I've gotta say to them is, watch this show and eat your heart out, you bitches!"
The house damn near exploded, and probably would have, too, had not the lights gone out and flashed dramatically back on again with a thunder and lightning crescendo, while Cher wailed away and the band's drummer kicked butt on the high hat.
Watching Cher bounce around on stage like a teenager and hearing her gutsy pipes tear into a golden-oldies hit record from the past, reminded me of the day I first met the popular entertainer.
 I can't remember the exact date, but I'll never forget the occasion. It was at a luncheon in a fancy-ass luxury hotel honoring Sonny and Cher hosted by American International Pictures. Sonny sat there grinning sheepishly at the cameras in what looked like a pair of pajamas and Cher sat there looking like she was a hometown homecoming queen, nervously flicking her long black hair out of her eyes and wiggling her shapely leg in one of those sexy little mini-skirts.
Back in those days, they looked like a couple of gypsies or tramps. Little did we know then what we were all in for in the not too distant future. Good, bad, weird, or indifferent, whatever tag you wanted to put on them, you couldn't help but like Sonny and Cher. They were a bit "unordinary," that's for sure, but they quickly turned on critics who promptly told the world that they were in for a treat.
I was no different from any other reporter. Skeptical, yes. But quickly won over with Sonny's charm and wit and Cher's "what you see is what you get" up front personality.
 A few years later, I bumped into Sonny and Cher at a recording studio and, after exchanging a few pleasantries, Sonny pulled me aside and asked if I would "keep Cher company" someplace so he could finish mixing their latest recording session.
"Sure," I said, and promptly escorted Cher outside the studio. She was wearing a funky looking hat, blue jeans and an ol' blue-denim man's shirt, tied up in a knot under her breasts, exposing her belly button and a good portion of her hips. But back in those days, she looked like any other hippy-looking chick and nobody recognized her.
 It was a nice day, so we decided to walk down to a corner fruit stand, where we bought a coupla slices of watermelon. Then we returned to the parking lot of the recording studio, where Sonny's old pickup truck was parked next to somebody's big, black Cadillac.
We must have looked pretty strange (like a couple of gypsies or tramps, I suppose), sitting there in the bed of this ol' pickup truck, spitting watermelon seeds and waving frantically with our hands to scare the flies away.
Every time I spit out a seed, Cher would quickly match me. We kept spitting out seeds until finally Cher took a deep breath and landed a big mouthful of seeds a few feet from the pickup. It cracked me up.
 "What's so funny?" Cher wanted to know. "Haven't you ever seen anybody spit watermelon seeds before?"
I couldn't help but laugh aloud, when I thought about that incident while watching her knock everybody's lights out in her concert swan song. Maybe, I thought, "the bitches" would someday enjoy a small mini-version of the diva's popularity, but it was doubtful, indeed, if they would ever be able to match her in a Saturday afternoon pickup truck watermelon seed spitting contest.
Well, that's show biz, baby.
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